It had to happen.

This story takes place 15 minutes after publication of the entry below.

Cue dramatic music. Again.

Not such an interesting story, really.

I thought it only happened in Tokyo, but as I learned it also happens in Mexico; Transit Police push commuters onto trains in an effort to utilise every square unit of space.

I was most worried about not getting let onto the train at peak hour with my backpack. Large bags are not allowed on the metro. The transit police did not second glance, they just pushed a bunch of us through the open doors like an package too fat for the mail slot.

I was glad to be on the train, on my way to the airport, on my way to Santiago. I knew someone was going to try and pickpocket me whilst on the packed train, so I kept my hand on my pocket, guarding my slim wallet.

There was no way I was going to get pick-pocketed by any sneaky little kids.

Instead, I was pick-pocketed by two not so sneaky adolescents.

A few seconds before the doors closed, two dudes semi forcibly buried their hand in my pockets before I could think how to stop them without being violent. Then they were gone. I could not chase after them as I would have had to leave my big bag on the train. No option but acceptance.

I was not really upset, or angry. In fact, I was relieved.

I continued to the airport and sat down to sort my shit out.

Six hours later I landed in Santiago, less one credit card, one bank card, one drivers licence some cash and my student card.

No big deal.

Perfect Day, almost.

Zocalo. The big square in the centre.

















Passing the time.

















Sweetheart, I gotta go. Some gringo wants to take a photo of us.

Diary of happenings - Wednesday 22nd March 2006, Mexico City.

8.00
Bought a newspaper. Cover story: ¨Cyclone rips homes in Australia¨

8.15
Drank two espressos and read the paper.

9.00
Visited two museums, always very relaxing.

12.00
Watched the festivities for the Bicentenario de Benito Juarez in Zocalo for about an hour. Fantasic.

1.00
Saw a neatly dressed, seemingly wealthy father and son pair sitting in the Park opposite the Palacio de Bellas Artes. The son had a t-shirt wih a swastika on the front, not so neat after all. Started an argument in Spanish. I remained pretty calm, but was right up in their faces. They were back-stepping and sweating. As they walked away the father yelled out ¨dirty Jew!¨ in spanish. I had a really strong urge to run back and break his nose.

1.30
Ate some Black Corn Torillas with avocado, tomato and onion. Not very tasty.

2.00
Watched men play chess in front of the Museo Mural Diego Rivera.

2.30
Listened to a band, then realized they were an Evangelical Church Group, so I went to the bar across the street.

2.35
Drank two tequilas and two Coronas whilst arguing with two old men. I think Brazil will win, they of course, KNOW that Mexico will.

3.30
Nearly had an aneurism when I saw my bill. Each teqila shot cost me $10 US.

4.00
Saw Brokeback Mountain. The audiencve laughed throught each intimate scene except when Jack (Jake Gyllenhaal ) visits a prostitute in Juarez. Silence. Gave the film 4/10.

6.00
Got asked out for a drink by a young man with slick wet hair and shaved arms whilst standing beside the candy bar. Told him I had already had enough, but thanks.

6.05
Headed back to my hotel and watched the evening news. Understood most of it.

7.00
Showered and got ready.

7.30
Took the Metro to the Auditorio Nacional. Buena Vista Social Club with Omara Portuondo. Good, not great. The auditorium is just too big for that kind of a performance. The atmosphere was not there. Still, her voice is transporting.

11.00
Whilst walking back from the station to my hotel I heard some brushes and horns. Not streetsweepers and commuters, the jazz type.

11.01
Peered down a set of stairs into the basement of an old Art Deco building. Jazz club!

11.02
Klesma group started. Thye whole place bumped and bounced throughout the whole performance. Had a little chat to the lead violinist at the end. Good bloke.
Left after a few gin and tonics.

1.55
Lay in bed and thought; perfect day, almost.


Right now I am off to the airport. I have a flight to Santiago (Chile) in two hours.

Terms and Conditions

Grigos call them Chicken Buses, beaten up American school buses with divine murals of hay-zoos airbrushed all over. I can think of two reasons why the term was coined; either because the passengers often carry chickens, or, the drivers play chicken with oncoming traffic whilst overtaking around blind corners on mountain roads. Either way, the term, however appropriate, is a gringo term and considered offensive to Guatemaltecos. Because I am a culturallysensitivejewishaustralianleftleaningantineo-conuniversityeducatedstereotype, I call them by their correct name, Camionetas.

Okay, the point is, I was on a Camioneta on my way to visit my friend Anton in San Pedro de Atitlan. Anton and I live one block away from each other in Melbourne. I took a Camioneta from Guatemala City to San Pedro. All was fine, weather and I. The road became more twisted and tangled as we joined the dots from highland village to higher highland village. Of course, as the road became more dangerous, the driver became more confident. At one point the shrill screams of bald tyres combined with landscape shooting past in a blur put me in a cold sweat. Freediving is relatively safe, I thought.

As we overtook yet another pickup around yet another blind corner, a truck came around the corner toward us. The driver braked quickly trying to slow down enough to tuck back behind the slow pickup to avoid collision. At that moment, if you had looked at my face you would have guessed that I had just taken a shot of homemade tequila and lime. I tensed all of my facial muscles into an ugly ball of over sunned skin and two week stubble, before hearing a crash of sheet metal and glass.

Don´t get worried though (Mum), the oncoming semi only took out the mirror. The driver didn’t really care much, he simply said something sharp in Spanish (a word that I had never heard), shrugged his shoulders and continued at the same smoking pace.

San Pedro, on the shores of a stunning volcanic lake would have been a special place in the past. Now, it is basically a gringo village occupied by Germans with dreadlocks concerned about upholding their image as a free spirit, whilst remaining categorically imprisoned. I went to have some beers with Anton at a bar called Buddha´s. Decorated with lovely Tibetan prayer flags, images of Buddha on the menu, the walls and in the bathroom the owner, Mike, had done a good job on cultivating a spiritual drinking hole. Complete with free pool. Mike was most proud of his brand new 21inch plasma screen display for the computer behind the bar. I am pretty sure Buddha would also have been proud.

I returned to Guatemala City in the following morning.

Top five things to do in Guatemala City:

1.Visiting the countries best museums and zoo
2.Dining fine in Zona 10
3.Connecting with the bohemian culture of Zone 1’s bars and clubs
4.Gazing on Guatemala from above at the Mapa Relieve
5.Leaving

Adapted from Lonely Planet Guatemala

Yes, it was nice to leave. I concede that Guatemala City is not the nicest places to be, infact it is at times awful. However, as is often the case a lack of tourists means people are more genuinely friendly. I genuinely did enjoy the few days I spent in the capital.

In my opinion it is not possible to properly understand Guatemala without visiting the La Capital. I was fortunate to meet Philippa, a Canadian lawyer of Haitian decent volunteering for a Human Rights organization. Philippa had been sent to Guatemala by the Canadian Bar Association for a six month internship working mainly protect the rights of female workers in the clothing and textile industry. Many of the workers are unable to read or write, yet are forced to work under formal contacts, which of course they do not understand.

Hearing Philippa’s stories helped me to further understand the difficulties that the people of Latin America face as the global economy encroaches deeper into the third world, raping its resources and people. I dig him, but I do not own a Che t-shirt. I am not a Pinko, just concerned, more each day.

Almost 3 of 15 million Guatemaltecos live in the city, a seething mess of markets and squares divided by deep dry canyons. The buses splutter about the city like wounded asthmatic donkeys. Municipalities are divided unto Zones, numbered 1 to 18. Some of these Zones, like 6 and 18 are no go, violent attacks, murders and rapes are frequent. Tabloids remind us daily. Unfortunately I do not have any stories to share about such things.

Again, due to time constraints I missed out the best of Guatemala. I did not travel extensively in the highlands. Many travelers that I spoke to considered the time they spent village hopping in the mountainous South West an enlightening and enriching experience. Almost one month passed as quickly as a long weekend, my time was up.

I spent the last few days traveling through the North of Guatemala with Philippa. We crossed the boredr to Mexico and visited the state of Ciapas. Chiapas is in the South East corner and is of the poorer Mexican states. It has a Pacific coast, but no Caribbean like the Yucatan Peninsula, where Playa del Carmen and Cancun are. Cough cough kill me cough cough.

Chiapas has a number of significant Mayan sites and beautiful waterfalls, for this reason there are many tourists here. Palenque was my third and final Mayan site of the trip. In Guatemala I visited Tikal, where 50 metre high limestone towers above a lush canopy. In Honduras I visited Copan, a small, but special place. During my visits to these places I felt that much of the information about the Maya that I was being fed by the museums, plaques and guides was inconsistent, crude, oversimplified and perhaps inaccurate.

Whilst atop one of the towers in Tikal, which I had reluctantly climbed, I met an archaeologist. Fransisco told me he did not believe indigenous people had ever been concerned with tourists scaling the sites. Perhaps only hypocritical culturallysensitivejewishaustralianleftleaningantineo-conuniversityeducatedstereotype gringos applying western value judgments based on issues in their own countries were concerned with such matters. Sorry.

Fransisco and I chatted for a while atop the tower. He was supervising reconstruction of the tower, of course only the sides visible to tourists. The other parts would be restored, but only functionally – simply to strengthen the tower itself. I learned more in that half hour about the Maya than over the previous month. I will not go into detail here, however I will share with you two topics that I am interested in regarding our understanding of these civilizations.

One
The term Maya is like sand. It does not exist. It is a simple term based on simple academic categorization. The Maya are many people, across many regions and periods. The different groups cannot be lumped together and called Maya. The term is blunt and only clouds our understanding. As we learn more about the different groups that constitute what we call Maya the more we begin to see how inappropriate an all encompassing term such as that is. Still, I have used it extensively because it is so entrenched in our discourse.

Two
From what we understand, the socio-political structure of the Maya, there is that term again, was admirable. Particularly in Copan (Honduras) there was clear evidence suggesting intelligent members of the community, such as those with an understanding of mathematics, astronomy and geometry were elevated to positions of power.

I believe this is superior to the Western, or ancient Greek concept of Democracy. From a purely theoretical perspective, the model is ultimately non-political. In situations where a population is reliant on the natural world to prosper and be happy, knowledge, not popularity is king. Armed with knowledge, these leaders were able to accurately predict and explain rain and sun, hot and cold, day and night. I may not be making much sense, nor is this discussion very helpful, however a romantic attachment to an ancient political ideology such as this never hurt no one. Unlike…

I was walking back from dinner behind a neatly dressed older gentleman wearing a t-shirt with the words “Maine – Honduras” on the back. I politely approached him and told him jokingly that I was surprised there was also a Maine in Honduras. No laugh. Instead he pivoted stiffly around, shiny silver hair in the moonlight, and replied “No, there is no Maine in Honduras. We belong to the Evangelical Covenant Church in Maine. We are visiting a sister congregation of ours here in Copan, Honduras. We have come to spread the word of Jesus Christ as our Lord and saviour.”

His patter was so polished that I quickly scanned around at his feet, looking for a tape player. Either that, or he was taking the piss. Nope, the real deal. I tried, I really did, but speaking to these people is impossible. Any questions you ask are quickly and efficiently answered with biblical rhetoric that is impossible to decipher. I walked away quietly, maintain eye contact, as the manual suggests.

At this stage I am at the end of my time here in Central America. Just arrived in Mexico City, an amplification of Guatemala City by almost 10 times. I will only spend one week in Mexico, four days in the capital. Mexico is enormous and diverse. It demands a long and dedicated trip. Perhaps if/when I return to Mexico I will set aside some extra time for some Guatemalan village hopping, via knife edge camioneta of course!

Off to see some Rivera and Kahlo now, have been looking forward to that.

Choose wisely,

Daniel

An almost perfect pyramid of French tourists at Palenque

Freediving

Honduras has much to offer, however with limited time in central America I could only afford to visit a couple of places. This is unfortunately common.

I traveled for two days from Leon in Nicaragua to Utila, one of three Bay Islands in the Caribbean. Why go to the Bay Islands? Cheap SCUBA.

As I arrived by board I was stunned by the color of the water in the harbor, a light turquoise that you get from shallow reef and sunbleached sand. In an earlier post I included a picture of me sitting on a dock- that was Utila. It was like, wow.

I enrolled in a SCUBA course and completed my PADI Open Water Certification with little trouble. As an aside, I can wholeheartedly recommend Remy and team at Utila Watersports for your course if and when you visit.

PADI, it is a global brand that governs SCUBA schools and courses across the world in an attempt to standarise SCUBA to ensure safety and profit. The videos that you watch when undertaking a PADI certified course are more boring than talkback radio, but funnier than most sitcoms. Whilst watching the videos, four hours in one afternoon, I felt like a droog in reeducation.

PADI may be an acronym for Put Another Dollar In, or Pay in Advance and Dive, Idiot. SCUBA was great, the first dive was a buzz. I sat on the dock the afternoon after my first dive and tried to understand what it was about diving I enjoyed.

It was not the abundance of fish. It was not the Spotted Eagle Ray. It was not the Lobster. It was not the Moray Eel. It was not the Coral. It was not the warm water, nor was it the sensation of breathing comfortably underwater for the first time since the womb.

It was the feeling of three dimensions. Many of us have experinced this before in backyard pools and in the sea. However, being under the water for an extended time, with the freedom to move up, down, left, right, forward and back was amplified.

Hangon, If I can hold my breath for a while then I can do this for free, whenever I want, with little equipment. That afternoon I went to the Bay Islands College of Diving and met with Rok, a 6 foot 4 Slovenian with a shaved head and a soft accent.

Rok, and his partner Jennifer (who can freedive deeper that him) had submitted an outline for a PADI certified freedive school on Utila. Anyway, Rok surprised when his course was approved for certification, simply because PADI has no interest in promoting an arm of the sport that will raise little or no revenue.

I should probably explain what freediving is, briefly.

Freediving is a recreational sport that involves diving deep or for a long time with no SCUBA equipment. Some simple equipment is used, such as weight belts, fins, mask, and wetsuit. Competitive freediving is a dangerous sport. There are several categories. No limits freediving, where the competitor takes a sled into the blue a rides a balloon up when he/she is ready to turn around, is crazy. In general, there are two things that limit how deep we can dive; how long we can hold our breath if we can equalize as we descend.

Equalizing is simply what you do when you are on a plane, blow and yawn and stuff to stop your ears hurting.

Patrick Musimu recently dove to 209 meters. He exceeded the previous mark by 38 metres. It is rare, in any sport, that records are broken by such a large margin. Musimu´s record however has not been recognized by the sport´s governing body AIDA. There is a dedicated page on their website explaining, in convoluted legal language, the reason the record cannot be accepted. Musimu was able to achieve this depth by filling his sinus and middle ear (the airspaces inside his head) with seawater during descent eliminating the need to equalise. He is the only person who can do this, right now. I have not yet tried. Because freediving is a pure and natural sport, you go as deep as you can and if you come up alive you win, much of the freediving community recognizes Musimu´s record.

Okay, so Rok took me and a couple of other budding idiots for some dry training, that is, classroom stuff. We learnt some basic theory that would help us dive deeper and safer.

After a very light lunch of water and a banana (digestion uses precious O2), we took the boat out to the reef and lowered a 10m line into the water. The goal was that by the end of the day we would be able to dive to 10m and return safely.

I lay on the surface face down and relaxed. I filled my lungs with as much air as I could using a special technique, which I am pretty poor at. I pinched my nose with my left hand during the descent as I dove straight down. On the first dive I was surprised to find that I had reached the end of the line. Looking up, my stomach sank. I had never experienced such a feeling. The surface was well above me, and all was silent. No bubbles from the regulator, no bulky equipment, no snorkel, no one else. I felt that I had sufficient air to checkout the reef fir a bit, but maybe, considering it was my first dive, I should return to the surface.

I continued to practice, following all of the rules and diving a few meters deeper than the line, hanging out there for about 1 minute at a time. I enjoyed SCUBA, but freediving gave me a much more intense feeling. I was elated, on a chemical high. Happy Daniel.

After a break and some more talk we moved to a deeper site for some more dives. This time, the line was 13m long and the sea floor 17m below. I wanted to make it to the bottom. They tell you to never look at the bottom, only look at the line as you descend. Almost impossible.

All I could think about was the bottom. I made it to the bottom and wanted to go deeper, but the seafloor was a obvious obstacle. I did however forget to do something very important.

In addition to equalizing the airspaces in your head, you must (as with SCUBA) consciously equalize the airspace in your mask by blowing air into it through your nose. I had been doing this on every dive, however when you have no air, the last thing you want to do is waste some by equalizing your mask. I later learned that you can always suck the air back into your lungs from your mask as you ascend.

I got barotrauma of the eyes on my deep dive. At 17m I could feel my eyes getting sucked out of my face.

Normally, the eye is protected from barotrauma because the eye is
filled with non compressible fluids, the aqueous and vitreous humors.

A mask has air filled space that is compressible, affecting the
eye and it's adnexa.

If the diver does not expel gas through the nose into the mask on
descent, negative pressure develops inside this space, sucking the
eyes and lids toward this space.

This negative pressure results in marked lid edema and bruising as
well as bleeding under the conjunctivae of the eyeballs.

Vitreoretinal surgery with air placed in the eye contraindicates
diving so long as any of the bubble remains. Pressure induced changes
in the volume of these bubbles may result in hemorrhage inside the eye
and also may result in partial collapse of the eyeball.

Adapted from About.com

Immediately after descent my eyes swelled and dark rings formed. The following morning I woke and the white of my eyes were red with blood. Oh well, didn´t really hurt, I just looked like a monster. No photos of this will be posted, as Blogger.com will shut me down as per inappropriate content regulations.

Freediving is a very spiritual and individual pursuit. Each afternoon I try to practice the breathing techniques I have learned. Rooted in Yoga, they are essentially meditative and I am able to relax and focus on "nothingness". I am getting better at each day.

Now, more than two weeks later my eyes are finally clear again. I am busting to do some more freediving, in Israel or perhaps Egypt in coming months. I want to reach 100feet, 33metres. Entirely possible. Yes, I am hooked.

Hopefully I will be able to tell you all about it.

With love from the depths,

Daniel "TrueBlueJue" Strauss

Some good, some bad.

Corn on the cob, smoked iguana, dried iguana, dried fish, fried fish, beef stew, pork stew, fish stew, lobster, prawns on a stick, meat on a stick, tacos, beans, fried beans, black beans, red beans, white beans, strawberries, rice pudding, tortillas, fried chicken, criole chicken, fried pig skin, white cheese, capsicum, tamarindo, red jalapenos, green jalapenos, sardines, chorizo, raw tuna, bananas, platanes, fried plantanes, boiled bananas, fried bananas, watermelon, watermelon with ham, pizza, pineapple, oranges, papaya, coconut, mango, green mango, pumpkin, onion and tomato, broccoli, cabbage, peas, beetroot, carrot, rice, guacamole, salsa, eggs, fried eggs, a drink made from milk, cinnamon, egg and vanilla bean, coffee, various pastries, ice cream, shaved ice, fresh homemade drinks made from whatever, roasted nuts, bean stew, mashed beans, bean stew with sausage, chicken hearts, chicken feet, cow throat, cow stomach, rum, beer, chlorinated water from the tap, orange juice, Chilean wine, and hot dogs.

Facelifts, Farming and Freediving

To preface, I am currently reading Hunter S Thompson’s Rum Diaries, about his time in Puerto Rico in the 1950s. MHDSRIP.

Many travelers I have encountered love Grenada. Grenada is the richer of the two original colonial centres in Nicaragua. Unlike Leon, Grenada is a wealthy city home to the middle and upper-class. Of course, as many travelers had noted, this makes for an aesthetically pleasing city. The Plaza in its heart is thoughtfully landscaped and clean. Skinny Japanese and fat American tourists lap the cities interior in horse drawn carriage. How quaint. Sure, it is a lovely city to be in but I found it difficult to get any real insight into Nicaragua, the second poorest country in the Western hemisphere. I needed to do something naughty, something to write home about, something Hunter S Thompson-esque.

By chance, I was in Grenada for the Annual Nicaraguan Poetry Festival. On Nicaragua’s currency, the Cordoba, appears Ruben Dario. Ruben Dario (1867-1916) considered one of the most important Latin American artists, changed the course of Spanish poetry with his writing. In Nicaragua he is a national hero.

On the final night of the festival I sat in the Plaza and listened to a recital. A small old man in a linen suit with a felt hat and waxed moustache, seventy going on fifty, read a Dario poem. It was about Autumn, I think. He spoke slowly and carefully slowly, clearing his throat now and then. For much of the reading he stared over the audience, eyes glazed over. I am sure that this was a poem he had an intimate relationship with. After the reading I went back to my hostel and showered.

I have not gone out much on this trip, but this night I was planning on ingesting some beautiful Nicaraguan rum and dancing. I may even get up to some Hunter S Thompson-esque activity. I left for town with excitement.

My brisk walk toward the Plaza was interrupted suddenly by the sight of finger food through a large window. A party celebrating the end of this year’s festival was in progress in a hall on the main Plaza. I peered deeper in and was shocked. I saw diamonds and pearls. I saw evening gowns and terrible haircuts. I saw catlike facelifts, incision scars still pink. Teaming with important and wealthy Nicaraguans, it was exactly what I was looking for.

Wearing jeans, a navy singlet and thongs, getting in presented a problem. I looked like some dude trying to look like an Aussie trucker. No problem though, I have got the ¨I know what the fuck I am doing and I am just gonna keep walking don’t try to stop me I am very important even if I do not look like it¨ walk pretty much down. If ever, now was the time to use it.

I got to the bar with only a dozen or so rejecting looks. Not a bad score. I ordered a Flor de Cana with lime and started to circulate awkwardly, free booze in hand. I confidently approached a tall young man wearing black rimmed glasses and a tasteful grey suit. I introduced myself in tipsy, but utterly correct Spanish, and he responded in near perfect English. I hate that. Jorge and I got on quite well. Granted, the conversation was lubricated liberally with rum.

Jorge told me about his business. His family owns land across many parts of Nicaragua. One of six brothers, he manages several farms but lives in Managua (the default capital) hundreds of kilometers away. He drives his Range Rover to visit the farms very rarely, once a month perhaps. His family cultivates cash crops, Jorge’s is a sesame seed farm. The bulk of his transactions are with large Japanese companies. At this point in the conversation I had a vicious craving for sushi. I of course did not ask him how much he earns, but I did ask about wages for his employees.

The workers on his farms choose to work their 6 hour day from 6am to 12 noon. They all work seven days a week. According to Jorge´s drunken calculations he pays his workers, on average, $30 US a month. I hope, for his sake at the very least, that Jorge is familiar with Nicaraguan labour laws which stipulate ¨The minimum wage is set through tripartite (business, government, and labor) negotiations … in agriculture and livestock must earn a minimum of C$450 (US$36.60) per month plus meals; the legal standard workweek is a maximum of 48 hours, with 1 day of rest week.¨

Granted, Jorge is a lovely person, and is in possession of the address for this blog. Hi Jorge, if you are reading. His mother however, is an uppity taught-faced dragon lady in red. Hi Carmen, if you are reading.

Okay, so the story doesn’t quite live up to Hunter’s work but I now have a clearer picture of what life is like for Nicaraguans. “Mission accomplished.”

After walking the rum from my veins in the morning I made my way to Leon. Leon is, in antithesis to Grenada, a working class city and home to the Sandinista party. Neither of the two prominent Ronalds, Reagan or Mac, are welcome here. It was my intention to spend no more than a couple of days in Leon. I needed to keep moving to the Bay Islands in Honduras. Again, plans change.

I quickly fell for the city. If time permitted I would have stayed in Leon for a number of months to do some volunteer work and/or teach English. During my 6 day stay in Leon I made friends with some people that had done exactly that. Tara from Canada was teaching English after falling in love with Leon the pervious year. Eric, from France, also. I did nothing particularly exciting in Leon. I visited Ruben Dario’s grave. I visited the wonderful galleries and museums a couple of times over. I walked the streets and chatted in Spanish to whoever would pretend to listen. I went for a swim at the local pool and tried some breath holds in preparation for the following week.

I am going to save the next installment, Freediving.

Vandalism in Leon